Sibyl is a striking mare. From the offset, she is as tall in presence as she is in stature; towering at 18hh, you would be forgiven for staring in awe. Her body is composed of complete harmony, her angles meeting where they fit most optimally and her shadows sliding into the place the gods most wanted them to go. Her skin is a brown bordering on black, easily fitting against the backdrops of lower earth. Her markings, to juxtapose, are gold lock-and-key patterns that ring her neck. In many ways, she appears as a piece of pottery brought to life, an act of divine Pygmalion. Her eyes carry no white; only gold rested within a sea of orange.

She has no mane, and her tail drapes from the end of her tailbone in a single wave of black. Every movement speaks of restrained power and mystery, her body silent and alluring.

Around her sculpted, elegant chest are a number of shapes resembling suns. Her body moves in perfect composition, her colours resting carefully against each other with easily distinguishable grace.

Positive- Intelligent, eloquent, loyal, fair, independent, patient

Negative- Reserved, indifferent, perfectionist, unsettled

Sibyl, in a word, is quiet. This may be ironic, given her profession, but it is the truth. No word passes her lips that is unnecessary. Her words and emotions are kept inside her mind, and few are likely to even know her age. She does not necessarily choose to be secretive, but she is so. When she does speak, however, her words are eloquent and precise.

Sibyl is fiercely loyal to those she cares about, but it is incredibly hard to befriend her given the aforementioned quietness. She views herself much more as an observer than as a participant. She is a narrative force, a prophet, rather than a hero. It takes many months to break apart her outer shell, and that in itself is an issue, given that she hardly ever stays in one place for more than a month.

She does not feel at home anywhere. Since the death of her sister she has been adrift, and there is nowhere that she can truly be comfortable. Thus, she tends to spend a few months in a place as an observer, a perpetual tourist of the world around her, gathering ideas and information for her poems. She gives these poems to those she loves most- but once again, that is a small group of folks.

Sibyl’s story is one that is not easy to find. She keeps her lips sealed, thick enough that even she forgets many of the details. It is said that she has been wandering forever, that she has been born a nomad, but the truth of that is neither here nor there. There are some things that can be revealed to the reader, however, that only the most intimate will ever get to know.

Sibyl was also born to a nomad, a mare named Milister. They lived alone on the planes with no herd to protect them, and Sibyl was raised to protect herself. Her mother was a good one, and she knew that the beauty of her daughter would be both her salvation and her downfall. So Sibyl was taught how to sing, and how to recite poetry, and how to tell stories. Milister taught her own stories, of a land and a time far away, before horses were called horses or rabbits were called rabbits. The knowledge of those stories was an element of permanence that carried Sibyl in her life.

When Sibyl was two years old, her mother fell pregnant to a stallion over the mountain. Some say that it was actually Sibyl’s father; a rare and beautiful reunion of two lovers severed by fate. Most likely, Milister was simply lonely with nothing but the company of her fast-aging daughter. Her beautiful daughter who came closer and closer to luring the gazes of bachelor stallions who would want her as an object. Who would ignore the contents of her mind for the beauty of her body.

Either way, Sibyl was three when her sister entered the world. She was very similar to Sibyl in appearance- dark-coated, gold hocks and eyes. It could be said that she looked sphynx-like. Sibyl knew that her life’s purpose would be to defend and protect her younger sister. Her mother did not need to say it for Sibyl to know that her destiny had manifested. The sister, Hermia, was Sibyl’s joy. Her poetry revolved around her sister, around the sibling love they had formed.

When Sibyl was five and Hermia three, three stallions stole into the family at night. Hermia and her mother were caught and held hostage. Distraught, Sibyl went to the camp of the three bachelors and begged for them to take her instead. It amounted to nothing, but eventually the stallions let them go. But the damage had been done, and it was known that they could no longer live alone. The beautiful family would only become a prize to be won, and they would be destroyed.

So Milister joined a herd in the deserts, and offered her services as a teacher for the younger foals. Her daughters remained her pride and joy.

But it was Hermia who won the eye of the herd’s heir. The two had a flirtation, and she was made his mate. They were young but the match was incredible, and Milister was proud of her daughter. Meanwhile, Sibyl honed her skills of oration around the campfires, where people would be lulled to sleep by the calm, ocean-like voice of the mare.

After a year of mateship, Hermia was pregnant with the future heir of the herd. The foal was awaited with joy, but with no payoff until a storm ripped through the herd. The campsite was destroyed, and as these things happen, Hermia went into foal. Sibyl stayed by the side of her darling, wonderful sister. For three days the mare laboured, blood and exhaustion spilling out of every orifice.

As I am sure you can predict, Hermia did not survive the birth. And by the time the sun rose on the new day, Sibyl was gone without fanfare. Without her sister, she no longer had a home. Indeed, she no longer sought one but instead went where her mind decided to wander. She was a stray, not particularly proud, but not ashamed of it either.